Sunstroke
by SplatDragon
Summary: Going back to Blackwater, the danger was supposed to be Pinkertons. Bounty hunters, maybe. Anyone foolish enough to recognize him, to see his crimes and dare approach him. Never the Del Lobos. Never the sun, burning overhead. But when, last, had one of Dutch's plans gone right?
1. Chapter 1: Wilting

If Arthur ever saw Dutch again, he was going to kill him.

Lucky for Dutch, then, it didn't look like Arthur would see another day.

He'd long stopped sweating, and he no longer felt even the slightest relief from the cooling of sweat on his skin. It had all evaporated a long time ago, stolen away by the sun that burned high overhead. his hair was a matted mess, and he wanted nothing more than to wipe it out of his eyes—the sweat had dried, and the salt _burned_, but his hands were bound behind him, needles keeping him from trying to get them free. He had tried, twice, and learned his lesson quickly.

He was going to die here, wasn't he?

Arthur heaved, his vision warping, the landscape of naught more than tans and browns dancing before him. Anything that had been in his stomach, though, was in the brambles, on his shirt, and so all he managed to bring up was a tiny drop of foamy bile. His stomach churned, cramping and screaming desperately for water. He licked his lips, cracked and split and bleeding from blows and dehydration both, tongue as dry as the sand he knelt on doing nothing to wet them.

He had thought they were being cruel to the O'Driscoll. Tying him up to the tree, not letting him off to piss or shit, making him wear clothes thick with his own excretions. Not giving him food, and only the smallest sips of water to keep him alive, for well over a week and a half.

Now though… the man grinned, bitterly, lip splitting and oozing blood down his face, dribbling to the ground and almost immediately vanishing, consumed entirely by the thirsty sands. Would have laughed, but the sound rasped painfully in his throat, set him to coughing and fighting for air, bending double as much as he was able. Agony tore through his back, through his arms and his hands, sharp, stabbing pains that writhed around with each jolt of his body, had him struggling, desperately, to still. Fighting the urge to cough in hopes of stemming the pain, the constant pain driving him to twist, to try and push away, only to make it worse.

A hiss sounded near his foot, and he froze.

It would be just his luck, wouldn't it? Being strung up and left to die, only to be bitten by a snake and die of its bite.

He stilled, as best he could, unable to control the convulsions of his cramping muscles, the bobbing of his lolling head. But it wasn't a snake that slithered from the dry brush, but one of those ugly, big lizards. A Gila Monster, Hosea had called them once, and told him to stay well away. Even in his dazed state, wherein the sky was brown and the sand was blue, it was impossible for Arthur to miss its strange tail, and its yellow scales.

Arthur's foot jerked, and the Gila Monster flicked its tongue out, standing still as it stared him down. _'Go away,' _he thought, knowing better than to try and voice it,

The Gila Monster stepped towards him once, twice, and its nose bumped into his leg. His jeans crinkled, and its tongue darted out again, tasting the salt of past blood and sweat.

_'Get gone,' _he narrowed his eyes, stomach churning again, fighting down the urge to retch again.

It dug its claws into his jeans, beginning to clamber onto him, and perched there, staring at him. The reptile darted its tongue out again, hissing lowly at the taste of blood in the air, able to sense a heartbeat nearby, the blood flowing beneath its feet.

And Arthur continued to twitch, unable to control the movements of his muscles as he wilted beneath the sun.


	2. Chapter 2: Riding

Arthur should have been back hours ago.

Dutch scowled, hand twitching on his fishing rod, looking over at his horse. The Count was too recognizable, Hosea had pointed out, so he'd ridden one of their back-up Quarter Horses instead. It didn't hold a candle to The Count, but it had four legs and could wear a saddle, so he couldn't complain _too much_. He still complained a little.

And, apparently, _he_ stood out, too. So he'd been made to muss it up, wash out his pomade and mess it up with his fingers until he looked sufficiently ruffled. His vest and suit (and rings and other jewelry, to his intense dismay) had been temporarily discarded, exchanged for one of Arthur's green shirts and a pair of jeans, boots and _absolutely no jewelry, Dutch, I said no!_

To keep those damn bounty hunters from noticing him, he'd taken to fishing while he waited for his boy. For a while, he'd kept well away from the river, out of sight and out of reach of those bounty hunters. But as one day turned into two, and the sun crested on a third, when Arthur should have been back by the night of the second, he had moved to the river, waiting for the man. He'd never been much of a fisherman, though, that was more Hosea's thing, and he had only brought up two fish; Dutch didn't mind too much, though, they'd probably go bad before they got anywhere near Clemens' Point.

At midnight, he had started to get angry. Why was Arthur taking so long? Was he dawdling, gallivanting around like he was so prone to doing?

By sunup, though? He was getting anxious. Had something happened to Arthur? Had he been caught, been arrested?

Surely he would have heard about it? From the bounty hunters that kept passing by, who were constantly talking so loud he could hear them from dozens of feet away. A member of the Van Der Linde Gang, one as infamous as Arthur Morgan, being arrested? They wouldn't have been able to keep their mouths shut.

So he was, at least, reassured that Arthur was not, in fact, arrested. That he would not have to go and gather the gang to bust him out, risk all their lives for his foolish son, have to run again and flee, flee further even than Colter, most likely, or even down into Mexico, if the authorities had caught onto their tricks and stopped them from going north.

By noon, he was willing to say damn it all and ride straight into Blackwater himself.

He waited for the patrol to pass, packing up his fishing pole and stashing it away, grabbing the pitifully small fish that was on the hook and packing that away, too: Cain would enjoy it as a treat, if it was still edible when they got back. Only once he was sure he wouldn't draw attention did he mount up, swinging his horse onto the path and kicking him—her, he was riding a mare and he couldn't get used to it, he'd been riding stallions and geldings for as long as he could remember, into an easy trot. He wanted to canter, to throw her into a ground eating gallop, but that would draw too much attention and, despite his disguise, his face was still recognizable, and he didn't want to be pulled over by the bounty hunters. They'd recognize him in a heartbeat, if they got up close.

As always, there were a pair of bounty hunters standing watch over the path, and he found himself holding his breath, relaxing his posture to appear as casual as he could, feeling their eyes burning holes into him. His heart thrummed in his ears, and it took all he had not to fidget, not to drop his hand to his gun, prepare for what would, surely, be a massive gunfight.

But they let him pass without a word, seeing to deem him not worth their time as they went back to staring off at nothing and, as he began to get further away from them, he could just pick out their voices as they began to natter on to waste the time. Dutch didn't relax, though, until he was well out of hearing range, sighing and reaching up to run his fingers through his hair.

That was only the start, though. He still had to ride passed Blackwater, through Thieves Landing.

And so he did. Rode passed massive herds of bison, scattered bands of pronghorn and horses (_'Arthur would love her,' _he thought, watching as a handsome dun Morgan bolted), and ducked his head every time someone came by.

He worried, perhaps, even more as he rode through Thieves Landing. The bounty on his head was large, and any one of them would be willing to go after him; Thieves Landing wasn't exactly the haven people thought it to be.

People stared as he rode through. Dozing men jolted awake and raised their heads; working men stopped where they stood to look at him. He kept his head low, hair in his eyes, and fought not to hold his breath, not to give himself away.

He was all too glad to turn his back to Thieves Landing, kicking the mare into a gallop to get some distance between him and it, guiding her along the path instinctively. It had been a handful of months since he had been down this way, but he'd traveled this road so many times it came to him naturally.

A left there, and a right. Over the bridge, under the overhang. They'd always said that their money was stored near Blackwater, but that wasn't quite right. It was somewhere between Blackwater and Armadillo, only just barely closer to Blackwater. It was stored away in a cave they'd found, hard to reach without at least two men, having to pick your way through a clearing filled with cacti, then go through a small, claustrophobic cave, with someone having to hold a rope to help you find your way back in the dark.

Some might call it overkill.

Dutch liked to call it being prepared.

With that money, he hoped, and what they had stashed back at camp, he could get them all to Tahiti. The thought of settling down… it left a sour taste in his mouth. He'd never known a day in his life where he hadn't been looking over his shoulder, hadn't felt adrenaline thrumming in his veins. But for his family, he'd happily fall into a lazy life, a life with little purpose.

He could only hope that Arthur had gotten stuck. The man had gone in there more times than he could count, so he'd thought it was safe to send him alone. Now, though, he was second-guessing himself. Hopefully, Arthur had just gotten turned around in the dark of the cave. Or hadn't been able to get through the cacti.

Dutch didn't want to think of the alternatives.


End file.
